Driven
by Swellison
Summary: Sam and Dean investigate when the driver of the truck that crashed into the Impala has another accident at the same intersection. Set season 2, post-Tall Tales.
1. Chapter 1

A/N This story originally published in Rooftop Confessions #3, edited by J. M. Griffin and Evesong.

Driven

by Swellison

"_Take me home, country roads_," the radio soothingly blared John Denver's classic in the tailor-made truck cab. "…_to the place I belong _. . ."

West Virginia was 700-some miles and four states east of his current location, but George Moffet agreed with the sentiment completely. Fortunately, he was much closer to home, only another hour and a half or so of driving. He was heading home to Kirksville after unloading the cattle on his regular Iowa City to Kansas City livestock run. The music in the well-insulated cab drowned out the rattle of the empty stockcar behind him. He'd had this cattle run for almost two decades, along with the route from Fayetteville to Kansas City, on alternate days. His son, Bill, had helped him plot the route, back when Billy was studying geometry in high school—before he'd gone away to college and married into that East Coast family and become William.

George abruptly brought his attention back to his driving, realizing that he was in the wrong lane to make the right turn that was part of his recently altered route. He checked his rear view mirror; although it was past midnight, a couple of cars and an SUV were trailing him. He didn't have enough time or distance to veer across the highway and safely negotiate the exit. Oh well, he could catch the next exit and take Pershing Road instead. It was familiar territory, and had been part of his route for years. He knew this road like he knew the back of his hand. Still . . .

The veteran trucker tightened his grip on the big rig's steering wheel, signaled, checked his mirrors, and eased his eighteen-wheeler into the right lane. From there, he took the next exit, driving down Pershing Road at the posted speed limit of 45 miles per hour. A few miles further, he was approaching the intersection with state highway 129. He could see the bright beam of car headlights off to his left in the distance, and he downshifted and applied his brakes, adjusting his speed for the upcoming left turn. The wind picked up; it was well-nigh howling as George watched his speedometer creep up . . . 45 . . . 50 . . . 55.

"What the hell?" He forcefully downshifted and applied the brakes in turn—jake brake, air break for the trailer, the last-resort cab brake, practically standing on them. His truck inexplicably continued to build up speed, heading down the road, straight for the intersection— and the dark car that was racing down the highway, its driver seemingly oblivious to the truck that was barreling toward it at right angles.

Desperate, George yanked his steering wheel hard right and hit the horn; driving into a field was a better alternative than colliding with the rapidly approaching car. But the steering wheel failed to alter the truck's course. The vehicle continued roaring down the road, slamming through the intersection like a runaway locomotive. Smashing solidly into the passenger door of the older-model black car, the truck propelled both vehicles through the intersection and further down Pershing. George had been thrown forward in his seat at the impact, now the cab shifted sideways, as if it were trying to make the hard turn that George had initiated less than a half-minute earlier. He noticed that the brakes abruptly kicked back in, slowing down the truck and its newly-acquired hood ornament. Eventually, the tangled vehicles came to a complete stop, still mostly on the road.

With a shaky hand, George turned the ignition off. He reached for the door handle with his left hand. A white-hot pain shot up his right leg, leaving him gasping and unable to exit the cab. He took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm himself, and reached for the CB microphone. "Breaker… emergency... 9-1-1. My 18-wheeler's been in a two vehicle accident, on Pershing Road just past highway 129. Need ambulances . . . My leg's hurt and I can't get out and check on the people in the car. Please respond."

He eased off the mike's switch, waiting for an answer, two thoughts running over and over through his mind. _How did this happen? Again!_

* * * * *

Sam glanced up from his seat at the table, laptop already up and running, as the motel room's door opened and his brother walked in, brandishing a McDonald's bag and a drink carrier.

"I'm ba-ack!" Dean closed the motel door behind him, crossing over to the room's table. He dropped the food on the faux-oak tabletop and shed his jacket, placing it over one of the chairs. "Got two griddle cake combos and an Egg McMuffin with hash browns. If you'd rather have the Egg McMuffin, I don't mind seconds on the pancakes."

"How magnanimous of you," Sam muttered, hiding a grin and reaching into the bag to get his griddle cake combo. He also took one of the orange juices from the drink carrier and motioned behind him. "Coffee's in the bathroom. Should be ready by now."

Still on his feet, Dean nodded and crossed the room to retrieve the coffee cups. This was their third and last morning at the 4 Seasons Motel and Sam knew that Dean was getting heartily sick of their autumn-themed room. The bedspreads had a leafy gold, orange and red design. The drapes matched it, and extra-large pictures of single oak, maple and elm leaves dotted the golden walls. Sam heard Dean pour two steaming cups of coffee in the overly ostentatious but peeling gold leaf bathroom and then watched as his brother walked back to the table.

As Dean handed him a cup and sat down, Sam took a moment to study his brother's face.

"Do I pass inspection?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, you do—now."

Dean's run-in with the trickster's super-strong babes had left him with a split lip and numerous bruises. They had peeled out of the Ohio campus after dropping Bobby off at his truck, and hadn't stopped until they'd crossed the state line into Indiana. They'd ended up in Bloomington, where Sam had insisted that they rest for a few days. He'd argued that Dean needed to look presentable before they started their next case, first impressions being important in the initial stages of a hunt. After a token protest, Dean had given in, surprising Sam, until he recalled their constant bickering at the King's Lair Hotel, egged on by that same trickster. Dean had used their imposed vacation time to raise a little money, hanging out at the closest pool hall, where his split lip only enhanced his reputation with the bar's denizens.

Taking a sip of his coffee, Dean asked, "Did you find anything?"

"Nothing local." Sam swallowed a bite of pancakes. "No ghosts or resident evil haunting Bloomington—or the entire Indianapolis area." He ate some more pancakes before continuing, "I was just gonna expand my search to Illinois when you got here."

"Don't stop on my account," Dean said between bites of syrup-soaked pancakes.

Sam was about to reply when the laptop chimed in with a _you've got mail_ message. He dropped his fork, nudged his plate off to the side and pushed the laptop squarely in front of him. He quickly checked the source mailbox and frowned. This message was in the CBT box—Could Be Trouble. Sam had set up the filters to catch any news or article that covered their past cases, or the towns that their hunts had been conducted in. He especially kept an eye out for any news from Milwaukee or Baltimore. Scanning the fresh email, he noted with relief that it wasn't about either of those cities. It was about . . . "Shit."

Dean's head jerked up from his food. "Sam?"

"George Moffet was involved in another auto accident."

"Oh." Dean's voice softened. "Friend of yours?"

"No, he—" Sam cut off abruptly. "George Moffet is the driver of the semi that crashed into the Impala."

About to reach for the unopened Egg McMuffin, Dean halted.

"The accident was on Pershing Road, two nights ago. Just past Highway 129." Sam read the blankness on his brother's face. He sighed, and then continued gently, "That's the same intersection where Moffet's rig crashed into us."

"I never knew that," Dean said lowly. "How do you know—?"

"I saw the police report."

"Yeah, the cops must've talked to you, huh? Wait a minute, you _saw_ the police report?" Dean asked suspiciously. "The actual report? When?"

Behind the laptop's monitor, Sam bit his lip. He really should have told Dean about this way before now, but things kept happening. Dean had told him he thought he should be dead, Sam had contracted and survived a demon virus, then he'd run away after Dean had let him in on Dad's last words. Then Sam had disappeared, after being hijacked by a demon. His omission seemed pretty small after all that. Still, Dean wasn't going to like this.

"Sam?"

"It was a couple of days after you got released from the hospital. Someone had to bat clean-up." It was their code word for taking care of any left-over evidence from a hunt, usually stuff that had fallen into official hands. "I did what I could from the laptop; photo-manipped the license plate from the crash photos and tied up loose ends so no one would wonder why the McGillicuddys were driving a vehicle registered to a Winchester." While Dean was no slouch with computers, Sam was the better hacker, and they both knew it. "Then I took a field trip to the sheriff's department and swapped the original photos and accident report for the corrected ones."

"You did all that without bothering to tell me anything?"

Sam easily heard the bitterness and anger in Dean's voice.

"I had a lot of time on my hands. You—" _weren't talking to me, about Dad or anything_, Sam thought, but carefully refrained from saying out loud. "You had your hands full, fixing the Impala. I had backup; Bobby knew where I was and what I was doing."

"And that makes it all right? You had backup, so sneaking around behind my back was okay?"

"Dean—" Sam started, then bit back the defense he'd almost mounted. _I wasn't sneaking around. Admit it, you didn't even notice I was gone, you were so wrapped up in your damn car_ . . ."I meant to tell you, but I kept putting it off, and things just snowballed. I'm sorry."

Dean looked at him for a long beat and then gazed aimlessly around the room. He sighed. "You're right, somebody needed to take care of it and I wasn't—"

Sam interrupted him. "That's all water under the bridge." He refocused their conversation on the present. "We need to see George Moffet. Two accidents in the same place? That can't be just a coincidence."

"Not with our luck," Dean agreed.

"Remember what Meg said?" Sam watched as Dean flinched, then quickly clarified, "the real Meg Masters, after we exorcised the demon from her? That she'd been possessed for a year. Maybe Moffet's still possessed—or re-possessed." They both knew that once you were possessed, you were more susceptible to repossession. Sam thought briefly about the anti-possession charm tucked safely into his wallet. Bobby had given it to him after he'd been possessed by 'Meg' and he knew Dean also kept his charm securely in his wallet.

"So," Dean cleared his throat, "where exactly is Pershing Road?"

"Salisbury, Missouri. But that's not where Moffet is—he's in the hospital, broken leg and assorted cuts and bruises." Sam quit hiding behind the monitor and raised his eyes to meet Dean's squarely. "He was life-flighted to Shiloh County General in Columbia, the same hospital we were at, after the accident."

"This just gets better and better," Dean said sourly, tossing the still-wrapped Egg McMuffin into the wastebasket. "Pack up your bags, we're heading for Columbia."

* * * * *

Drive time from Bloomington, Indiana to Columbia, Missouri was listed as just under six hours. It was pretty much a straight shot west on Interstate 70 and Dean made it in less than five hours. Once in Columbia, they stopped for a late lunch, found a motel, and changed into business attire. Their cover was a no-brainer; they were auto insurance investigators.

Dean smoothly pulled the Impala into Shiloh County General Hospital's visitor garage and parked on the second level. Sam fiddled with his tie while Dean pocketed the keys. Their eyes met and Sam caught a trace of worry in his big brother's eyes.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Dean gestured toward the four-story hospital. "I can do the interview alone, no sweat."

"I'm fine." _You've had to do too much alone already. I can handle this._ Sam added, "It's just another hospital." _Where Dad died and I almost lost you _. . ._ yeah, right. Just another hospital. _He winced. "Okay, poor choice of words, but we need to interview this guy."

"If he's possessed—"

"Dean. I of all people know you have to separate the demon's actions from the person being possessed. If he's possessed, we'll find a way to exorcise him."

"In the middle of a hospital? That oughta be fun," Dean muttered, opening his door and exiting the car. Sam did likewise and they headed for the staircase. They checked in at the reception area, discovering that George Moffet was on the second floor.

Sam knocked on the door of Room 259A/B, glad that it was in a different wing entirely than the rooms that Dean and Dad had occupied months ago. He still felt uneasy, being back here, and he kept a concerned eye on both Dean and the hospital staff. Thankfully, no one seemed to remember them, and he started breathing easier. His long-held belief that the staff saw patients as completely separate entities from healthy people seemed to be holding true. Maybe if Dean had been dressed in hospital pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt, his forehead still marred by that jagged scar, someone would have remembered him. But Dean's brown suit and striped tie rendered him almost invisible, just another visitor in the bustling hospital.

"Come in," a voice called from behind the door, and Sam swung it open. Dean trailed him into the room.

"Mr. Moffet, George Moffet?" Dean asked politely. Only one bed was occupied, but it never hurt to check.

"Yes?" the patient answered, a half-smile on his face.

Sam recognized the general age and build of the trucker: early sixties, average height and weight. The man was lying on the hospital bed, his right leg completely casted from mid-thigh down to the ankle. He had short gray hair that stood at attention and friendly brown eyes. Sam remembered a blue jean jacket exposing a red and tan plaid shirt, two red stripes running down the chest like thick streaks of blood, and pitch-black eyes. _Hell, maybe I'm not as ready for this as I thought._ He shook his head slightly, trying to rub out the image of this man looming toward the Impala, dark eyes glowing, reaching for the driver's door and ripping it off . . .

Dean bumped Sam's arm. "I'm Al Jardine and this is Brian Johnston. We're insurance adjustors."

"Oh." Moffet's smile vanished and he sighed. "You're not who I've been dealing with on the phone."

"The home office felt your case deserved in-person attention, considering the circumstances," Sam said. "You understand, I'm sure."

"I guess so." Moffet's voice was flat. "What do you want to know?"

"Why don't you tell us what happened, in your own words," Dean suggested as Sam pulled a mini-cassette recorder from his suit pocket.

"You don't mind if we record this, Mr. Moffet?" Sam asked, preparatory to engaging the machine.

"No."

Sam spoke into the activated mike, "Interview with George Moffet, Case 376291. Shiloh County Hospital, February 15, 2007. Al Jardine and myself, Brian Johnston, conducting the interview.

"Now, then, Mr. Moffet, you were driving home, after you completed your cattle run?"

"Yes. I pulled into Kansas City just after lunchtime, got the cattle unloaded and squared away. Then I grabbed an early dinner and snoozed in my cab for a couple of hours."

"Is that normal?" Dean asked.

"I like driving the empty stockcar at night, less traffic. And the cattle company has no problem with me sacking out on their premises—been doing it for years. I've got a super-cab, room for a real full-sized mattress in back, quite comfortable."

"Okay, so you left Kansas City at what time?"

"Just after 9:30. Don't worry, I was well-rested. The drive was perfectly normal. I was approaching Salisbury right around midnight, looking forward to spending Valentine's Day with my wife, for a change." Moffet hesitated, and then calmly described the accident. His clear and detailed accounting made it obvious he had recited the information many times before.

"I discovered my leg was broken when I tried to get out of the cab to check on the people in the car. I think there were three of them. Couldn't move, so I used the CB and called for help." He gestured to the surrounding hospital room. "Got life-flighted to this place—people in the car did, too." Moffet swallowed again and sighed. "The hospital staff hasn't told me much about them, other than they're gonna be okay. Their injuries were numerous, but not life-threatening, thank God."

Sam and Dean exchanged glances, and Sam turned the recorder off. Then Sam's eyes flicked to the rolling bed tray and the empty water glass on top of it. "I think you could stand a break; you look a little parched. Would you like a glass of water?"

"Yes, that'd be good," Moffet answered gratefully.

"It's empty." Sam reached for the individual pitcher. "I'll fill it up and get you some ice, too. Be right back." As he walked toward the door, he heard Dean ask, "So how did you get into the trucking business?"

Sam checked at the nurse's station down the hall and was directed to an ice machine tucked into a bay in a neighboring corridor. He found the ice machine, along with three other vending machines and a water fountain. Sam filled the pitcher half-way with ice, then added water from the fountain. Casually reconnoitering the hallway, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small flask, quickly adding a dash of holy water to the pitcher. He capped the pitcher and then walked back to the room.

Entering the room, Sam crossed to the bed, picked up the glass and poured the fresh water into it. "Here you go." Handing the glass back to Moffet, he stepped back.

Moffet took a swig of water and paused to lick his lips. "That hit the spot, thanks." He took another sip and Sam and Dean exchanged fleeting 'now what?' looks as nothing untoward happened. Clearly Moffet wasn't possessed—at least not now. "Are we done?"

"Not yet," Sam said. He grabbed the recorder and turned it back on, preparing to wing the next part. "Mr. Moffet, you've given us a very detailed account of what happened. You didn't lose consciousness after, or, uh, before the accident?"

"If that's your polite way of asking if I was asleep at the wheel, then the answer is no."

"You do know that there were no skid marks found at the scene until well after the intersection?" Sam questioned carefully.

"Weren't you listening to what I said?" Moffet asked aggressively. "The brakes didn't work until _after_ I collided with the car. Of course there wouldn't be skid marks before the intersection."

Dean intervened. "Mr. Moffet, I'm sorry for bringing this up, but this wasn't your first accident on Pershing Road, correct?"

"I knew you'd get around to that." Moffet sounded resigned.

"Same road, same intersection, you even crashed into the same part of both cars. Hell of a coincidence, wouldn't you say?" Sam asked.

"Coincidence?" Moffet's eyes bore into Sam, and Sam started worrying that Moffet would see past his business suit and phony name and recognize him from the accident. "I guess so." Moffet shifted in his bed. "Funny thing is, I wasn't even supposed to be there."

"What?" Dean asked, startled. "I thought this was your regular route, a milk run for you."

"We truckers tend to be a superstitious lot," Moffet explained. "After the accident—the first one—I altered my route to bypass the crash site. But I wasn't paying super-close attention to the road, and I missed the new turn off, had to take the next one, Pershing Road. Friday night was the first time I'd been back on that road since the crash." He paused a moment, reflecting. "How does that country song go? _If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all._ What do you want to know about the first crash? Not that I can tell you much."

"Just . . . whatever you remember," Sam prompted.

Moffet frowned. "I remember making the turn off from the highway, heading down Pershing. Then—nothing, next thing I knew, I was on the ground, on my hands and knees. I looked up and this big black car was T-boned across my rig, the driver's side door lying on the ground. I heard the driver—not much older than a kid, screaming "Dean!" —every five minutes, like clockwork, until the EMTs and the helicopter showed up. Don't think I'll ever forget that scream—it was haunting."

Sam felt his brother's eyes on him as he woodenly turned the recorder off, trying to come up with something to say to change the conversation. "So, you were asleep that time?" _No, he was possessed, but that's not what an insurance guy was gonna tell him._

"I don't remember, but I must've been, right?"

Dean nodded, clearing his throat. "Thanks again for talking to us. We'll file our report, and you'll be hearing from your regular agent from now on."

"You don't have to sugarcoat the news, guys. I've already decided to retire. Lizzie and I discussed it after the first accident, but my clients both urged me to keep driving. I'd had a clean record until then, no accidents, no speeding tickets, and no incidents of any kind.

"But now . . . my clients aren't going to feel the same way, after it's happened twice, and I can't blame them for that. Lizzie's been after me to retire for awhile now, anyway. I'll sell the rig after it's been repaired, and we'll get by."

"That's a remarkably well-adjusted attitude, Mr. Moffet," Sam said.

"What choice do I have?" Moffet asked, yawning. "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. That was a poster in my son's room, years ago. Now, if you gentlemen are through, I'm feeling a little tired."

Sam and Dean took the hint and quietly departed.

*********

I used Shiloh County General as the name of the hospital because that's what it sounded like the nurse said when she answered the phone in IMTOD. Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think so far.

11


	2. Chapter 2 Handson Investigation

_Dean lay in his hospital bed, watching as Sam walked past Dad, leaving the room on a coffee hunt. He waited until Sam was completely out of sight, then asked Dad, "What is it?"_

_Dean listened, amazed, as Dad apologized and explained some of the mistakes he'd made raising his sons._

_He reran his father's words in his head. "I just want you to know that I'm so proud of you." _Dad's proud of me?__

_"Is it really you talking?" Dean asked, hesitantly. _

_"Yeah. Yeah, it's really me." Dad's eyes suddenly lightened to a bright, unmistakable yellow. "Who else would it be?"_

_Dean's heart froze, the breath caught in his throat._

_"I want you to look out for Sammy," the yellow-eyed demon leaned over Dean and whispered. "You need to save Sammy, that's all that matters. And if you can't save him, you have to kill him. Believe me, Dean, it's the only way."_

_Then the demon stepped back and grinned. "You'll have three chances to change his fate. But you won't alter destiny, because you'll choose to save Sammy over the world, every time." The yellow eyes stared into Dean's. "I know you, Dean. Almost as well as I know my _own_ son, Sammy."_

"No," Dean moaned, tossing in his motel bed, getting tangled up in the blankets. Feeling himself restrained, he jerked awake, arms flailing. He grabbed for the knife under his pillow, and by the time he gripped its comforting handle, he'd settled down enough to recognize his surroundings. _Motel bed, not hospital bed._ He released his hold on the knife and took a deep breath, trying to calm down. _Okay, so being in that hospital again was more unsettling than I thought. Guess my subconscious decided to remind me of that, but why drag old Yellow Eyes into the picture?_

_Three times _. . .He'd saved Sam from Gordon's bullet, and he hadn't been goaded into shooting Sam, despite Meg's best efforts. _Wonder what's next?_ _Doesn't matter._ Dean flipped over to his side, and that put Sam squarely in his line of vision, stretched out and dead to the world on the inside bed. _Three times, or three hundred, I'll always save you, Sammy— or die trying. _

As he watched, Sam began to toss and turn in his sleep. Dean rose into a sitting position, legs over the side of his bed as he continued to keep an eye on his restless brother. Apparently nightmares were contagious tonight. Sam continued to move restlessly, and then he moaned, "No . . . no . . ."

_That's it. _Dean reached over and jostled Sam's closest leg.

Sam sprang awake, defensive and alert.

"Easy, Tiger," Dean soothed and flicked on the light between the two beds. "You were having a nightmare."

Sam's eyes scanned the room, then landed on Dean's face. He took a deep breath. "Yeah, I guess I was. Thanks for waking me."

"Wanna talk about it?" Dean offered, knowing he'd be rebuffed.

"No, I'm fine. Just . . . today just stirred up some old memories." Sam took another breath and pummeled his pillow into shape. He settled back into bed, repeating, "I'm fine."

"Okay." Dean clicked the lamp off and then settled back into his own bed. He stayed awake until he heard Sam's breathing even out into sleep, only then letting himself drift off, too.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

"Look sharp, Sam," Dean said from behind the Impala's steering wheel as they took the Pershing Road exit from the main highway. "Won't be long now." They had ditched yesterday's suits and were back in their accustomed jeans, layered shirts and jackets. The temperature hovered around forty degrees, so Dean's leather jacket was buttoned up, and Sam's tan jacket was zipped snug.

"I still think we should've done more research," Sam commented from the passenger seat after they drove about a mile down the road.

"We _are_ doing research, of the hands-on variety." Dean kept an eye on the mileage gauge; they had another three miles before the intersection with Highway 129, according to Mr. Moffet. Pershing Road was not a hotbed of activity, traffic-wise. Sam had run a cursory check of Salisbury on the laptop and had informed Dean that the town's population was less than 1,700 inhabitants. Indeed, its most recent population growth had been negative. "All we know so far is that it wasn't a demon—"

"Wrong," Sam interrupted. "All we know for sure is George Moffet wasn't possessed by a demon when we interviewed him."

Dean turned to glare at Sam. "Well, if you're going to get picky . . ." He left the thought unfinished and returned his attention to driving. They drove by a steady panorama of fenced-in fields, probably corn. The crop was dormant for the winter, the ground stiff and cold in the snowless February sunlight.

They passed a Junction 129 sign, and Dean unobtrusively tightened his grip on the wheel. Not that he was expecting trouble, but Sam did have a point. Who knew what they were dealing with at the moment.

Dean drove at a non-noteworthy 50 mph, only five miles over the speed limit. No other vehicles were on the road in either direction, nor could he see any traffic on the approaching intersecting highway. He noticed the speedometer notch up another five miles to 55, and knew he hadn't increased the pressure on the gas pedal. "What the—?" Dean lifted his foot off the gas, expecting to feel an immediate drop in the car's speed. Instead he was startled to see the speedometer creep up another few miles, and the Impala was now racing toward the intersection. _Damn! This is what happened to Moffet._

"Slow down!" Sam ordered.

"I'm trying to!" Dean yelled back as he tapped on the brakes, with no decrease in speed. The Impala sped through the luckily deserted intersection. Suddenly, he felt the steering wheel twisting to the right. The car veered off the road, plowing straight for a barbed wire fence line.

"Sam!" Dean yelled in warning and threw out his right hand in a classic soccer mom save, determined to block his unbelted brother's forward momentum. Frantically, Dean yanked on the steering wheel with his left hand, trying to turn the car away from the fence.

To no avail. They crashed into the fence, the front passenger panel colliding with a fence post, barbed wire screeching against black paint. The force skewed Dean toward Sam's side of the car, his outstretched right arm smashed up against the windshield, but he prevented Sam from also hitting the glass.

Whatever had control of the car released its grip as soon as the Impala connected with the fence and came to a dead stop. Sam dropped back against his seat, Dean half-fell into his lap, landing on his right arm and side.

"Oww!" Dean couldn't stop the hiss of pain, and he struggled to rise and shift back to the driver's side of the bench seat. "Sam, you okay?"

"Just tossed around a bit," Sam quickly reassured Dean. "You?"

"We gotta get outta here." Dean reached his left hand under the steering wheel and turned the ignition. "_I _didn't drive us into the fence!" He backed away from the post and wires, which made hideous scraping sounds but thankfully stayed in place, then made a wide left turn onto the road, roaring back the way they had come.

He felt Sam's eyes on him and turned to face his brother. "What?"

"You planning on driving all the way back to Columbia like that?" He pointed at Dean's right arm, carefully tucked across Dean's lap instead of gripping the steering wheel.

"It's only an hour."

"Dean." Sam's expression tightened and Dean braced himself for another diatribe on his big brotherly over-protectiveness, too-stoic attitude, and refusal to admit to being hurt. But to his surprise, Sam went with the practical instead. "Pull into the next convenience store and I'll get some ice—it'll help. We'll wrap it when we get back to the motel."

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Dean sat in front of an ancient microfiche reader at the Columbia Public Library, perusing a recent newspaper article. Careful not to jostle his arm, (Sam had uselessly spouted RICE—_Rest Immobilize Cold Elevate_—at him in regards to treating his mashed arm, but he'd made do with an ace bandage) he sifted through old newsprint, searching for an explanation for the supernatural activity on Pershing Road. After hours of unproductive research, he gave in to curiosity. Finally finding the right date, he positioned the card under the fiche reader and read about the Impala's accident, months ago. He barely remembered Sam depositing him in the backseat and had no memory of the actual crash. He read, absorbing the details of the horrific crash, and felt the air shift suddenly as someone stood behind him, leaning over to read the screen. _Sam._

Dean pushed his chair back, purposely bumping into Sam, who took an automatic step backwards. Dean turned in his chair to face his brother, braced himself for whatever Sam was about to say. He wondered if pointing out that they were in a public place—a library, no less— would do any good and keep Sam quiet.

Actually, surprisingly, Sam hadn't said a word yet. His job had been to do the more free-ranging research, tracking down old maps and texts and checking them for any useful information about cemeteries, tribal lands, natural disasters or other unusual occurrences in the Salisbury area—but he didn't seem to be working on any of that.

Dean glanced sharply at Sam's face. Physically, Sam was here, but his eyes were unfocused, staring off into space. _Oh, hell_. _Vision? _Dean was out of his chair before he noticed the lack of pain in Sam's stance or expression. Sam's visions always included excruciating pain, so his brother wasn't having a vision. Still, something wasn't right. He reached for Sam with his right wrapped hand, ignoring the stab of discomfort as he squeezed Sam's upper arm. "Sam?"

Sam blinked a couple of times, and then his eyes darted around the room, stopping to linger on the illuminated microfiche page.

_The newspaper article about the crash._ Since Dean didn't remember the accident, he could almost read about it in the abstract, as if it had happened to someone else. _Sam doesn't have that luxury. He remembers the crash in Technicolor detail _. . ._ and we never talked about it._ It had been just another topic to avoid—what the demon said at the cabin, Dad's death, Dad's last words . . . In hindsight, Dean wished he had been willing to talk, been stronger for Sammy back then.

"Attention, please." An impersonal female voice spoke over the public address system. "The library will be closing in five minutes. Please make your final selections and check out your materials now. Thank you."

Sam jerked his gaze from the displayed page. "You ready to go?"

"Sure." Dean retrieved the fiche card from the reader and slipped it into the proper pocket. He flipped the reader off and gathered up all the microfiche pockets he had requested. "Let me return these, and then we can blow this pop stand. You find anything useful?"

"I've got a theory," Sam said slowly. "It's kind of farfetched, but it fits the facts. I'll tell you about it over dinner, back at the room."

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Dinner ended up being a large pizza. In deference to Dean's injured arm, they ordered Dean's favorite—sausage, pepperoni, ham, mushrooms and extra cheese.

They consumed their first slices of pizza before Dean broached the hunt again. "All right, so what's this crazy-ass theory of yours?"

"I think it's a poltergeist—like in Lawrence."

"What?" Dean's half-raised pizza slice dropped down on his paper plate.

"You remember what Missouri said, back at the house? _Real evil walked here_." Sam took a breath. "Well, the same thing happened at Salisbury. Dad was possessed by the demon for several hours, and it left its imprint on you when it—" Sam gestured toward Dean's chest. "You were both in the Impala for awhile, before the ambulances arrived. Add to that, the demon that crashed the semi into us, and you've got a pretty good case for the presence of real evil on that roadway.

"Missouri said that kind of evil leaves wounds and sets up a paranormal magnet. I think it attracted an open-air poltergeist. Poltergeists that are attached to a location, not a building, are uncommon, but they're not unheard of."

"It would explain Moffet's crash and what happened to us this morning," Dean said.

"Yes. Poltergeists love taking control of and tossing around inanimate objects."

"Wait a minute!" Dean objected. "Are you calling my baby an inanimate object? She's—"

"That's how the poltergeist sees the Impala, not me," Sam backpedalled. "In this case, the inanimate objects are motor vehicles, but yeah, in principle, it's the same thing as throwing books and furniture around in a house." Sam paused to take a sip of his Coke. "So, how do we stop it?"

"Missouri's wards." Dean picked his slice back up and chewed on it.

"What?" Sam asked him around a bite of his second slice. "You think that wards are powerful enough for this?"

"Sam, you were out of it, but after I put that last ward in the wall, it unleashed a blinding white light that blew through the house. I covered my eyes and I could still see it—and feel it. That light had plenty of mojo, enough to send a poltergeist packing."

"Still, it wasn't enough for the poltergeist in our old house," Sam reminded Dean, helping himself to another slice of pizza.

"Hell, Sam, that was _our_ house, in Lawrence. Of course it would attract a stronger, nastier-than-ordinary poltergeist." Dean reached for his third piece. Having to use his left hand was slowing down his eating and Sam was a slice ahead. "I think the wards will work here. Anyway, it's a good place to start. If it doesn't work, we'll figure out a banishment ritual, or something."

"Wards, huh? Where do we put them?"

"In the north, south, east, and west corners," Dean recited Missouri's instructions, and then sipped his Coke.

"Corners of what?"

"Pershing Road runs straight north and south. So, if we bury the wards in the dirt shoulders along both sides of the road, we'll form a rectangle and cover all the cardinal directions."

"Bury the wards?" Sam questioned. "We just stuck 'em in the walls, before."

"Wards need to be stationary to be effective; they need to be grounded. Since there's no walls on the open road, we'll ground the wards by burying them. Three inches ought to be deep enough."

"We're gonna need a big rectangle for that," Sam said thoughtfully, and Dean could practically hear the wheels turning in his brother's head. "We'll have to make sure the wards encompass the whole crash site, and then we need to backtrack to where the poltergeist first took over control of the vehicles. I'm guessing it was the same spot for both times, and definitely before the intersection with the highway.

"Y'know, I could use GoogleEarth to hone in on Pershing Road and map the spots where we need to plant the wards. It should be accurate enough for our purposes."

"Fine, go to it," Dean encouraged, then frowned. "Do we have all the ingredients for making wards? Hey, do we even know all the ingredients? Missouri only mentioned angelica root, vanvan oil, and crossroad dirt by name when I asked her what was in those wards."

"I asked her about it later, and she emailed me the complete list." Sam left the table to retrieve his laptop. He returned and powered it up. While waiting for the connection to be established, he handed one of the two remaining slices of pizza to Dean and took the last one for himself. He munched as he searched through his emails. "Here it is."

"I need to talk to Bobby." Dean extracted his cell phone and started dialing. "We have everything on that list?"

Sam read the list, and then pushed the laptop over to Dean, so he could see the monitor. "We're missing the last ingredient, maybe we can get it from Bobby?"

Dean had already speed-dialed Bobby and was waiting for the older hunter to pick up the phone. "Hi, Bobby. It's Dean . . . I need a favor. You got another anti-possession charm? . . . No, we didn't lose one, it's for the Impala . . . You heard me . . . Thanks. Could you overnight it to Al Jardine, care of the Dew Drop Inn, Columbia, Missouri? You'll have to look up the zip, sorry." He glanced at the monitor again, and grimaced. _Of all the embarrassing things to ask for. At least it wasn't horn of toad. _ "Oh, and one more thing . . . you have any spare eye of newt? . . . You do? . . . Yeah, just send it with the charm. Thanks again. Bye, Bobby."

Dean disconnected his cell phone and pocketed it. "We should have the stuff by noon tomorrow. Then we can start making the wards."

"Great. Then all we have to do is place them in the right locations along the shoulder of the road, but . . ."

"But?"

"That's not as easy as it sounds, Dean. The wards need to be buried and fully covered, so we have to dig holes at least three inches deep."

"So?"

"So the poltergeist is going to figure out what we're doing, and things're gonna get ugly, especially for the last set of holes. Remember the house?"

"Okay, so we need a way to dig the holes ahead of time. That way when we're ready, all we need to do is drop the wards into the ground and bury them. Hmmm." Dean picked up his last piece of pizza and chewed thoughtfully.

"I've got it," Dean said after polishing off the pizza. "Highway litter patrol."

"Huh?"

"C'mon, Sam, you've seen those do-gooders and minor offenders stuck with community service cleaning up litter along the side of the road. It's perfect. People see what they expect to see. Couple of orange vests and litter-retrieving poles and we're in business." Dean pictured Sam in one of those obnoxious orange vests, which would be a few inches too short on his brother's lanky frame, and hid a grin. Sam didn't fit in the one size fits all world of normal people, in more ways than one.

Sam caught on fast. "So we'll drive down to Salisbury and each take a side of Pershing Road. We'll clean up all the litter, making sure we leave holes for the wards at the beginning and ending of our litter-free zone. So if anyone sees us—"

"They'll assume we're just picking up litter. I like it."

"What about the poltergeist?"

"I'm not sure it'll be out and about during the daytime, but we'll take the EMF meter just in case."

"It was out and about this morning," Sam brooded, nodding toward Dean's wrapped arm.

"That was different." Dean picked up his Coke can, but it was empty. Damn, he was still thirsty.

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Please let me know if you're still enjoying the ride!

10


	3. Chapter 3 End Result

Driven

by Swellison

The wards were set, dinner was eaten. All that was left was the waiting. Dean hated to wait—Sam watched in amusement as his big brother paced around the hotel room. Finally he took pity on him and pointed out there was a King Arthur movie on TV . . .

Midway through the movie, Sam mentioned the inconsistencies in the climate. Dean just smirked and said, "Who cares if there's ice all over the place, Keira Knightley's hot."

The movie finished, Sam rose from his bed and manually turned the TV off, then returned to sit on his bed, legs over the side. "Dean, we need to talk."

"Sam, now's not the time to say you screwed up your ward locations," Dean said from where he lay on his bed.

"Dean—"

Dean deflected, "Or to tell me you've got cold feet."

"Dean." Sam gritted his teeth. "I'm driving tonight."

"Oh, good one, Sammy!" Dean chortled.

"Hey, I'm serious. You're not driving tonight."

Dean quit laughing and his face hardened. "Oh yes I am."

"Your right arm's wrapped in an ace bandage! You're not driving."

"Sam." Dean practically growled his brother's name as he sat up in the same pose as Sam.

They faced each other across the gap between the two beds. "You don't want me driving with the bandage, fine, I'll remove it. I don't need it; my arm's not broken, anyway."

"You're right; the wrist isn't broken, but it's probably sprained, and certainly bruised all to hell—not to mention painful. You can't even hold a pizza slice in that hand."

"Wanna bet?"

"Dean." Sam took a deep breath, and then looked his brother straight in the eye. "Hey, I know you don't trust me with your car, but you've gotta make an exception tonight."

"Sam—" Dean cut himself off. "Wait a minute, I don't trust you—? Where'd you get a crazy idea like that?"

"I haven't driven the Impala since Red Lodge."

"And a few days after that, that zombie-chick broke your arm and put it in a cast. Stayed that way for almost two months. I got used to doing all the driving, then. Guess we never broke the pattern after that. Besides, it's my car." Dean paused. "But that doesn't mean I don't trust you with her, dude."

"Why? How? I've run out on you twice, now, Dean. How can you still trust me," Sam's gaze flicked away and he lowered his tone, "when I don't trust myself?"

"Sammy. I don't think we're talking about the Impala anymore," Dean said softly. "What's going on in that freaky head of yours?"

"Nightmares," Sam admitted reluctantly.

"About—?"

"Duluth. I'm with Jo—and you. I see, hear and feel everything with crystal clarity. What I said to Jo, and telling you you were gonna die." Sam swallowed and his gaze returned to Dean's face. "Shooting you, and watching you fall into the water—the whole nine yards."

"Sammy, it wasn't you."

"And the feelings are—inescapable. I'm watching you fall into the water, and all I feel is happy." He shook his head and his tone sharpened in self-disgust. "What kind of monster shoots his own brother and feels nothing but gleeful satisfaction? Huh?"

"It wasn't you, Sam," Dean repeated, firmly.

"But it felt so real."

Dean heard the plaintive, scared tone in Sam's voice, loud and clear. "That bitch probably kept you in the dark in Duluth knowing that you'd start to remember things in your dreams. Sammy, listen to me. You're not a monster. You're not going to _be_a monster." Dean stared deeply into his brother's eyes, then continued, "You're a Winchester—and that makes you the hero of the story." He reached over and tousled Sam's hair with his left hand. "Or at least the hero's trusty geek sidekick."

Sam eyed Dean's retreating uninjured hand, then glanced pointedly at his wrapped one. He nodded his head in the direction of Dean's bandaged arm. It was a silent 'Dean, please' maneuver that he'd used since childhood.

"We should go." Dean rose to his feet. "You're driving, Mario." Then, lest Sam think he was a push-over for caving, he added menacingly, "But if you put one new scratch on my baby . . ."

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They were almost four miles down Pershing Road, rapidly approaching the start of the poltergeist's zone of interest. Other than the Impala, the road was devoid of traffic, and Sam hoped that it would stay that way. The radio played an old Queen song, lending raucous encouragement with, "_Another one bites the dust, another one bites the dust_." Sam flicked the radio off, not wanting the distraction or noise.

The moonless night only added to the sense of deserted isolation that permeated the area. A streak of fluorescent orange paint suddenly appeared on the ground on both sides of the road. Sam turned his attention briefly from driving. "You ready?"

"Dude, I was born ready," Dean answered, fingering the two wards stuck in the left-side pocket of his leather jacket.

Sam left the engine running, as they had agreed that they needed to save every second they could between placing the wards. Dean put his faith in the anti-possession charm secured in the glove box, and Sam figured that the poltergeist wouldn't be deterred by something as mundane as the lack of a key if it really wanted to get its clutches on the Impala.

Sam braked on the road, putting the Impala in park and flipping the hazard lights on. "Okay, now," Sam said as they threw open the doors and sprang from the car. After a hurried glance up the road, Sam sprinted across the street. Reaching the pre-dug hole, he dropped to his knees, grabbing the first black pouch from his coat pocket. He set the ward in the hole and pushed the small mound of dirt that he'd dug up that afternoon back over the hole, filling it in and patting it down quickly. Then he leaped to his feet and darted back across the road to the waiting Impala.

"Dean?" Sam jammed himself back into the car, slammed the door and released the brake. He shifted out of park and into drive as Dean jumped in and slammed his door closed.

"Go!" Dean ordered unnecessarily.

Sam floored the gas pedal. They flew by the Junction 129 sign and both boys scanned the intersection they were closing in on. The beam of distant headlights could be seen on Highway 129. Sam calculated that the car was too far away, and they would cross through the intersection easily before the other vehicle drove through it.

Sam gave a relieved sigh, and then gasped as the other vehicle was suddenly much, much closer to the intersection. _Damn! The poltergeist couldn't get to the Impala, so it's latched onto another vehicle instead._

"Sammy! Look out!" Dean warned uselessly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean's left hand reaching forward, and he knew Dean was itching to take control of the wheel. Instead, Dean braced against the dashboard, holding on tight.

The other car was too close to avoid by braking, and the Impala was going too fast for a sharp turn onto the shoulder to be a good option. Oh, God, he wasn't going to be able to outrun the possessed car, Sam thought. His grip on the steering wheel tightened and he pushed the pedal flat with the floor. He focused on driving, and poured everything into one thought: _Faster, faster, FASTER!_

Whoosh! Sam drove like a bat out of hell through the intersection, practically flying. The Impala crossed the Cavalier's path with only inches of separation, somehow avoiding what had seemed like an imminent collision only seconds before. Sam caught an impression of the terrified face of the Cavalier's driver as they blew on past.

Once past the intersection, Sam slammed on the brake. _STOP!_ The Impala skidded to a halt about five feet past the second set of orange paint streaks and he and Dean both tumbled out of the car.

Sam raced across the street to the opposite shoulder, making a beeline for the empty hole. He grabbed the last pouch from his pocket, and went down on his knees. He crammed the ward into the waiting hole and then shoved the loose dirt over it. Patting the dirt down, he heard Dean yell, "Cover your eyes!"

Sam stayed low, squinting over the crook of his right elbow.

Two blinding flares of white light formed along both sides of the road, like horizontal lightning. In the blink of an eye, the two streaks of light moved toward each other, merging in the center of the road. A sharp crack, and the surroundings were immersed in a white mist that dissipated seconds after being formed.

"You okay, Sammy?"

"Yeah." Sam rose to his feet. Now, he understood Dean's earlier comment about the ward's power.

The air felt different somehow: cleaner, fresher. Sam checked both sides of the road. It was deserted and he crossed back to the Impala. He sank into the driver's seat and watched as Dean plopped down on the passenger's side.

They exchanged glances and spoke simultaneously. "Wow."

Sam removed the parking brake and shifted into drive. "I think we've seen the last of our poltergeist." He carefully drove onto the shoulder, checked the still empty road, and executed a leisurely left turn onto it. Seconds later, they silently passed through the intersection with Highway 129.

"Sammy."

Sam turned his head toward his brother.

"Dude." Dean's green eyes met Sam's squarely. "That was awesome." He grinned. "You're almost as good a driver as I am."

"Almost—?" Sam challenged lightly, feeling giddy with relief.

Dean ignored him and turned the radio back on, apparently in the midst of a Queen retrospective. _"We are the champions, my friends. And we'll keep on fighting till the end _. . ._"_

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Sam dropped the room keys off and closed the Dew Drop Inn's office door behind him, crossing the parking lot back toward their room. As he approached, he saw Dean leaning against the Impala, his brother's arms crossed loosely over his chest.

He stopped a few feet away from Dean. "Okay, we're good to go. Should reach Bobby's in time for supper." Sam knew that Dean was looking forward to some hands-on time with his baby, in Bobby's yard. Bobby had already found a replacement for the headlight, and Dean would have the Impala back to pristine condition in next to no time. Sam glanced at Dean's wrapped right hand. _Well, maybe a little longer. Wonder if he'll let me help, this time? Won't know unless I ask. _

He opened his mouth to speak when Dean suddenly straightened from his slouch and circled Sam, then stepped over to the passenger door.

"Dean?"

"Heads up!" Dean threw something to Sam, who automatically caught it. Sam stared at the car keys uncomprehendingly and heard the passenger door creak open.

"You'd better get moving; it's a long drive to South Dakota," Dean said

casually over the Impala's roof.

Sam shook himself and headed for the driver's side. Opening the door, he settled into the driver's seat, pushing the seat back for maximum legroom.

Dean yawned. "Wake me up for lunch," he ordered as Sam drove out of the parking lot.

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A/N: Well, that's it. Thanks for sticking to the story through the end, hope you enjoyed the ride! Please let me know what you think, reviews keep the Impala primed and ready for more road trips.

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